


The Reunion Scene

by damalur



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fix-It, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 19:33:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3500285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damalur/pseuds/damalur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't worry—I skipped the part about <i>us."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Reunion Scene

**Author's Note:**

> I have committed first person and can offer no excuse for my behavior.

Everyone wants to know about the reunion scene. It's what they're reading for—that moment when everything comes together, when the curtain is pulled back, when the mask is taken off, when confessions are made and unrequited becomes more. Shit, even when you know all the tricks, a well-written story can still make your heart pound as it topples along towards that moment, that one...perfect...moment.

Now that the world has stopped trying to rip itself in two, that's the question I get more than any other. It's almost enough to make me regret writing the damn book in the first place, but someone had to tell the story of what really happened. Don't make that face; I may have adjusted the particulars, but I didn't touch the essence. There's a lot more to the truth than mere facts.

Anyway, the reunion scene is what everyone wants. They want to know what happened to Hawke, where she went, how she came back; they want to know if she ever went pirating with Captain Isabela or gambled with the elf again, if she ever reunited with her brother, if she ever made it back to Kirkwall. Sometimes the letters I get include the correspondent's own version of events—purely imaginary, of course, and bad enough to make Rivaini's 'friend-fiction' look like the Chant of Light in comparison. Sometimes my readers beg or threaten or try to bribe me for more, all the standard crap that writers secretly eat up.

The baffling part, though, is that everyone agrees on one thing: what they really want to know—more than whether Hawke meets the Hero of Ferelden, more than whether she really rallied the mages against the Divine herself, even more than whether she learned to turn into a dragon—is what happened when Hawke was reunited with _me._

Did I say 'baffling'? Now that I think about it, it makes perfect sense that the question of the age concerns Hawke's faithful chronicler. I have more than one fan who's mentioned how dashing I look in my author portraits, and I am a famous author to boot. (Are you jealous yet? Don't be.)

Vanity aside, it's pretty damn confusing from an outside perspective. In _The Tale of the Champion_ , Hawke and I are friends, sure, even partners— _legendary_ partners, as anyone who's ever gone up against us in diamondback knows—but not much more than that. No shit, Hawke spends more time on the page talking to her mother than she does to me; I went over that manuscript three times before I turned it over to my editor, and the version of events I relayed to the Seeker and her Chantry gang was just as selective. 

Part of being a writer, though...part of being a writer is that no matter how much you try to hide yourself, some glimmer of the truth always comes through. Maybe I spent too long describing Hawke's eyes, or her cackle, or her ass—no, I think the descriptions of her ass never made it into the final draft. Since this is a private rendition, and nothing that will ever see the light of publication, I can finally admit that there were a few times I got sidetracked in the original.

The point here is that even when I tried, I couldn't fully disguise the truth; that's why the readers want to know about Hawke and her narrator rather than Hawke and any of the hundred other eligibles in her tale. (The Seeker once pointed out to me that it wasn't a coincidence that everyone Hawke meets in _The Tale of the Champion_ is attracted to her. The exact words she used were 'authorial projection'. I'd rather go dancing with a darkspawn than tell her how right she was.) 

Where was I—right, the reunion scene. Keep in mind that nobody was at their best. Hawke and I hadn't seen each other face-to-face in over a year. She'd spent most of that time tracking Corypheus or hiding out in the wilderness (better her than me), and I'd escaped the destruction of Haven just in time to go strolling through the mountains. Great trip. Scenic. No supplies and snow drifts taller than I am, but scenic. 

The Herald spent most of that first week at Skyhold tending to the wounded, clearing debris, and assigning lodgings; anyone with a featherweight of sense knew to claim a room early or risk sharing quarters with six other people or, if you were really unlucky, six goats. Have I mentioned the goats? Ruffles thought they were size-efficient. We had goat cheese for breakfast, goat cheese for lunch, goat cheese for dinner, and goat cheese for dessert, not that that'll ever make it into any official accounts of the Inquisition. If there's one thing I know how to recognize, though, it's a valuable opportunity, and I set myself up in one of the tower rooms with a fireplace while everyone else was still pitching tents out in the yard.

So there I was, no shit, the only person actually living in the Keep, and it's the end of a long day—my bruises had bruises, and all I wanted was to sack out in my bed and dream of being in an actual city with actual amenities. The problem started when I reached out to open my door and heard something weird coming from the other side: it sounded like the fire had been lit.

In addition to being a bestselling author and a great dresser, I have a finely-honed danger sense. (I can hear you trying not to laugh, you know. You aren't as sneaky as you think you are.) I knew _I_ hadn't laid a fire, and I knew nobody else was supposed to be around, and those two thoughts mated to produce a notion that made my trigger finger itchy. I unslung Bianca and cradled her in one arm (in case you're still keeping track, now's when you should be jealous) and used the other hand to push the door open.

I may be a bestselling author and a great dresser with a finely-honed danger sense, but I'm no slouch when it comes to a brawl, either. I went into that room with Bianca leading, ready to turn whoever had touched my stuff into a pincushion, but the sight that was waiting inside made my jaw drop past the Deep Roads.

If you've never seen Hawke in person, let me tell you that the portraits never do her justice. For one thing, the only official portrait of Hawke is the one she sat for in 9:33 at her mother's insistence. In that portrait, Hawke is sitting still, wears a fancy dress, and has an expression on her face that suggests constipation. None of these accurately represents the Champion.

At first glance, Hawke isn't much to look at. Sure, her skin is pale enough to make you think she's a reanimated corpse—I think the correct term is 'alabaster'—but she's got old scarring up and down her arms, her knuckles are often bruised, and she freckles in direct sunlight. And yes, her hair is as dark as the Blight—'raven' might be another way of putting it—but it also smells like ash and beer, and she cuts it herself, so it looks like her dog has been chewing on the ends. The part about her eyes is true enough—the blue is otherworldly—but 'otherworldly' isn't necessarily an attractive trait. Lots of shit comes through from other worlds: ghasts and demons and old gods.

At first glance, she isn't much to look at, but on second glance you start to notice the spirit that animates the body. By that time, you're a goner. There's no looking away from her. I glanced in her direction once a decade ago, and I haven't been able to tear my eyes away ever since. How do you describe that magnetism? It's equal parts brashness and humor, buried rage and hidden compassion, daring and wit and a contrary streak wide enough to fly a dragon through. 

My authorial biases may be showing again, so in the interest of objectivity, I'll also note that Hawke has a tendency to make bad puns, a total lack of anything approaching common sense, and a dangerous weakness for bestselling authors with good fashion sense who happen to be handy in a fight.

So there I am, standing in the doorway with Bianca locked, loaded, and ready to fire; to my right is the lit fire, to my left is the window, and directly ahead of me is the bed, with Hawke spread out on top of it like a nine-course meal from a kitchen that realizes stewed vegetables aren't enough to make a menu.

She was wearing only one piece of clothing. I'll give you two hints: it belonged to me, and it wasn't my boots.

I set Bianca aside tenderly and gave Hawke my best smirk—

What, that wasn't how you remember it going? I don't speak in gibberish, and I definitely wouldn't drop Bianca; that must have been some other dwarf you're recalling. 

This wasn't even the reunion you wanted? Andraste's tits, you could have told me that three pages ago. Here I am, slaving away to meet the terms of your bet—no easy task with you hovering over my shoulder. I take back all that nugshit I said about your—

Oh, come on, Hawke—I wrote your damn reunion scene, let me talk. 

"Not until I do it properly." Look, Champion, not to insult your crazy scheme, but nobody's ever going to read this except for you and me, and we both know what happened.

If you give this to the Seeker, I'm going to tell everyone that you can't eat pudding without smearing it all over your face.

All right. All right. I did lose. How should I start? At the beginning? That's uncharacteristically conventional of you, but sure, you're the protagonist. I'm only your faithful chronicler, after all.

Scratch all of the above. I've been instructed to write the _real_ reunion scene, the one nobody saw coming. That reunion starts like this:

One day, Hawke walked out of the Fade—


End file.
